Chaos series by Kristen Ashley

With ease, I shoved this from my mind.

This, I didn’t care about. Everyone had wondered why I was with Elliott, too, and I hadn’t cared about that either. I had my way of doing things. I had my baggage. I had my issues. I had my demons. But I had few pet peeves, though one of them was anyone judging a book by its cover or judging anything at all, including anyone who might judge me or my decisions.

No, I had enough head space taken up by judging myself and my decisions. I didn’t need to give more over to what anyone else thought of me.

So I didn’t.

Wednesday rolled around and the pitch was in disarray. I knew I was facing another ten o’clock night but when I felt the vibe of the office change—this wafting through my wall of windows—my eyes went there.

I saw Hop striding toward me, smiling, carrying a white paper bag held in the crook of one arm, bags of chips visible out of the top and a six-pack of diet cherry 7Up in his other hand.

At the sight, the pitch, the client, my staff, and everything else flew from my mind.

I had lost myself in work for two and a half days so it was easy (sort of) not to think of Hop except when I was in bed, trying to fall asleep and missing doing it with him and waking up in his arms.

Him there in my office—walking toward me, bringing me lunch, being hot, smiling a smile that was sexy and all for me—he was the only thing on my mind.

He was the only thing in the universe.

He hit my open door and, eyes never leaving me, greeted, “Hey, babe.”

He kicked the glass door with his boot. As it swung closed I replied unconsciously, “Hey, honey.”

His eyes and smile got warmer. He walked through the office and dumped the stuff on my desk.

“I have a stash of 7Up,” I informed him.

“Now you have a bigger stash,” he informed me.

Okay, damn.

I had to admit it.

He was getting to me.

Hop unpacked the sandwiches, handing me mine and a bag of plain Ruffles, yanking a cold 7Up off the plastic and setting it on my black desk blotter. Then he sat with his food as he had with his Chinese, feet up on the desk, open bag of Doritos in his lap, sandwich held close to his face, a 7Up at the edge of my desk.

“Pastrami,” he muttered. “Provolone. Had them grill it and hold the mustard. Nothin’ should mar that blouse, lady.” He dipped his head to my blouse, his lips curved up with appreciation. “There’s packets in the bag if you wanna go wild.”

I reached for the bag thinking, yes, he was getting to me.

I mean, everyone knew you had mustard on pastrami but very few would think to hold it in case you were willing to make the sacrifice because you were wearing a nice blouse.

Thoughtful.

Sweet.

I also was thinking we never had this, sitting, eating, everything normal, no fighting, Hop not saving me from the unwanted advances of a monster truck owner, us not ha**ng s*x or about to have sex or in the aftermath of sex.

I claimed some mustard packets, opened up my sandwich and was squirting mustard on, looking for topics of conversation.

Eventually, I found one.

“How are the kids?”

“Good,” he said through a mouth full of sandwich. He chewed, swallowed, and smiled at me. “Lookin’ forward to Vail this weekend. Found a rental. They’re psyched.”

“Right,” I muttered, closing my sandwich, picking it up, and taking a bite.

Delicious. I didn’t know where he got it but I was going to find out.

“You prepared?” he asked and his tone of voice made me look to him.

I chewed, swallowed, and asked, “Prepared for what?”

“The weekend,” he answered.

“I’m never prepared, Hop,” I told him honestly and took another bite.

“Got two days, Lanie,” he said softly. “Train your mind to think you’re gonna be in God’s country, at the foot of mountains in a spot that’s one of the most beautiful places in the world. Away from this.” He threw out a hand to indicate the office. “What you’re facing sucks. Where you’re gonna face it doesn’t. Try to think of that.”

This was actually a good strategy and I couldn’t stop myself from giving him a small smile.

“I’ll train my mind, Hopper.”

“Good, baby,” he muttered, his face soft and God, God.

He was definitely getting to me.

I looked back to my sandwich, took a bite and chewed while I put it down and reached for my chips.

I swallowed my bite.

“So, what’s the deal with their mom?”

Yes, this came out of my mouth.

“Say again?”

That came out of Hop’s.

My eyes went to him and my mouth backtracked. “Sorry, not my business.”

“I asked,” Hop stated slowly. “Say again?”

“I really—”

“Babe, if you mean Mitzi, it is your business. You mean Mitzi?”

I stared at him.

Was he seriously, openly, without hesitation, going to talk about his ex?

“Well, yeah. I meant Mitzi, but I shouldn’t have asked. It isn’t my business.”

“Fuckin’ you, intend to keep f**kin’ you, want to know more about you, pleased as f**k you asked about me, so it is your business. To answer your question, the deal with Mitzi is, she’s a f**kin’ bitch.”

I blinked.

“No, a cunt,” he amended casually and my chest depressed.

“That isn’t very nice,” I told him.

“Nope. But it’s true,” he told me.

“Women don’t like that word, Hop,” I educated.

“Then women shouldn’t act like cunts,” he returned.

I didn’t like that.

Maybe he wasn’t getting to me.

“That’s unbelievably harsh,” I said softly.

He took his boots off my desk, dumped his bag of chips and sandwich on the desk, and leaned toward me, wrists to the desk, giving me all his attention.

“She is not a good woman, Lanie. Always on my ass when we were together, tough as hide, hard as nails. Don’t speak to her and, if I can help it, don’t look at her. I hate her.”

“That’s harsh…” I hesitated than finished with emphasis, “er.”

“Yep, but it’s also true.”

“Wow, Hop. I don’t know what to say,” I replied.

“Nothin’ to say. I do not not like her. I hate her. Can’t stand the sight of her.”

This was not good.

“How does that, um… affect your kids?” I asked cautiously.